


wishing too hard for them to stay

by angelfishofthelord



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Family, Angel Wings, Angst, Bad Parent Chuck Shurley, Castiel Needs a Hug (Supernatural), Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Castiel is Loved (Supernatural), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode s15e17 coda, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, Episode: s14e20 Moriah, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Family Feels, Gen, No Slash, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, Season/Series 15, Season/Series 15 Speculation, Self-Sacrifice, Team Free Will (Supernatural), Team Free Will 2.0 (Supernatural), because i need him to know that, i just want Sam and Cas to have some good scenes together, maybe we'll see what happens next week, shippy if thats how you like it, so is Sam but it just read smoother in some parts using singular pronouns, those are some of the episodes referenced i dont remember the rest, would i watch an entire episode of Cas and Sam just talking? absolutely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:34:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27186628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelfishofthelord/pseuds/angelfishofthelord
Summary: You tell me you’re doing to die, and I don’t yell at you.Instead I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”
Relationships: Castiel & Sam Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 33





	wishing too hard for them to stay

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword: this is my first time writing Sam Winchester, so I hope I've done the character at least some justice. I feel like he and Cas would have the most interesting poignant conversations, and I want them to have more scenes together. With the synopsis for S15E17 putting them together as a team I don't know what to expect but I hope we get some honest open conversations like this. 
> 
> Also yes I am so afraid of Cas dying I'm trying to prepare myself by writing about it all the time. Join me in my special brand of pain-inflicting therapy.
> 
> Story title inspired by this [song by The Greeting Committee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Osk7FKu5nmU); I came across this song in [amazing gif set](https://flowersforcas.tumblr.com/post/631474420428439552/and-the-room-sings-we-know-something-you-dont-x) and immediately started listening to it on repeat.

You tell me you’re doing to die, and I don’t yell at you.

You seem surprised by this. The way your shoulders tilt forward, as if you were ready to shield yourself. Your hands are twisted in the coat fabric at your side, prepared to steady yourself if I storm forward, hurtling accusations in hurricane force. Your eyes look right at me, but they’re hovering, able to dart quickly to the side to parry the full force of what you assumed would be my judgement.

Instead I say, “Let’s go for a walk."

It rained this morning and the earth is still preening from the glitter of heaven’s shower. A few stray droplets roll down the back of my hair as I step outside and pull on a jacket. Your footsteps fall behind mine, tentatively crushing the damp eaves of grass. It takes about ten minutes of walking before the rhythm of your steps even to a more relaxed pace. There’s an alcove of trees a short walk away from the bunker; it’s the starting point for me when I go out for morning jogs. A white-painted bench sits beneath the spreading branches. I usually prop my feet up on the edge of one of the railings to retie my shoelaces before heading off.

“Still wet,” I mutter, brushing a hand across the few pools of water when we reach the bench. “There’s another bench up and around the hill."

You make no move to show that you’ve heard me. You keep your hands nestled in your trenchcoat pockets, chin titled upwards to the burgeoning rays of sunlight, serenity ghosting over your closed eyelids. I wonder how long its been since you left the bunker with no mission or purpose in mind, just to take a walk.

Then the thought comes to mind that maybe you’re savoring the warmth of light because you’re already counting down the number of days you have left to feel the sun embracing your face and my knees betray me, buckling down until I catch myself and fold into that drenched bench.

The water soaks into my jeans and I remember that you’re going to die.

You sit down at my side, your head still lifted skyward. I follow your gaze to a small red-breasted bird birched high up on the tree across from us. A few leaves are swaying from the branches above, offering a kind of curtain with dramatic timing as the bird hops and preens its glossy feathers.

“I remember when birds didn’t have wings,” you say at the same time as I ask, “Why?”

“Because they were still learning to walk,” you reply, deliberately misunderstanding. “A creature has to master the ground before taking to the sky. They grew limbs that later developed into wings, and once they learned to fly,” your eyes drift after the bird that has hopped to the next tree, “they were never quite inclined to return to the ground.”

“Do you miss them?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

You blink for a moment, as if trying to figure out what I’m referring to, and I realize there’s so much that you’ve lost. Your home, your celestial family, your connection to Heaven, your closeness to the hope of a Father, your full strength of power, even your species is at risk now. Your wings are just one in a long procession of burials you’ve been forced to go through, and often alone. Before I can apologize and pull out the pin I’ve stuck in your chest you raise an eyebrow in comprehension.

“Oh. My wings.” The bird takes to the wide blue above and your eyelids flutter to watch it dip and weave over the horizon. “Not really. I sometimes wish I had them when one of you is in danger, but I don’t need them to go places anymore.” You turn to face me and I wish you hadn’t. “I have enjoyed my time right here, with you.”

 _Have enjo_ _yed_. 

“We love you,” I say, trying to smile through the tears in my eyes. “You know that, right?”

You look mildly affronted at the question. “Of course. Why do you think I have to do this? You are my family and I won’t let you die. None of you.”

I open my mouth to argue that family includes you, too, and if you die that counts as one of us dying, but something sounds familiar in your words. You said them to me, to us before. When you took on the burden of cosmic consequences to save us from a deal we had made in desperation.

“ _I will not let you die, I won’t let any of you die,”_ was what you said at the time, standing on an open road at midnight with a blade in hand and body at your feet. _“You mean too much to me.”_ My brother, mother, and I had done nothing but watch the torrent of your words and stare in silent shock. Because we didn’t know. We didn’t know that we didn’t just occupy a place in your heart but taken up the entire place, first, second floor and the basement. That you would put your name down to suffer without question if it meant keeping us safe.

The first time you died was only a few months after we first met. You stepped boldly into the wrath of an archangel, holding to nothing but a feather of hope that we could change the course of an already rising tide. The second time you died was also at the hand of one of your elder brothers. Again you walked into that execution likely knowing full well what would happen, yet putting one foot in front of the other because of that fraying barb of faith in us. 

You have brokered dangerous deals and said yes to the devil and sold your happiness for us, for this family. You who has lived long enough to remember birds without wings and see creatures learn to abandon the dirt for the clouds, you who could once soar to galaxies we only dream of and traverse the world in a heartbeat, has chosen us to be the ones you die for. You have witnessed wonders language cannot describe, you have watched humanity build itself up from the ashes, and still you choose to sit at our dinner table and call us your own. You might live for another millennium but you rather limit your days to be here with us in this crumbling world.

“Is this what it feels like? To be loved by God?”

A sad chuckle sounds beside me and I realize that I’ve spoke aloud.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say with a slight shrug. “I’ve never been.”

“That’s not--you don’t know--” I falter, because part of me wants to tell him that a father always loves their child at some way, but another part of me knows that God is no ordinary father. “Maybe in the begin--”

“He killed my son.” The words come out low and bitter. “He watched me search for him, he watched me pray to him, he watched me--” your eyes fall to the twisting of your thumbs in your lap. Your chin is lowered now, almost touching your chest, and a shaft of sunlight from the tree above washes over you unnoticed. “He never cared about me. Or any of us.”

“But you do.” I tug an arm around you, nudging my shoulders against yours until you look up at me. “You’re better than him.”

The feeble smile you offer hardly feigns belief in my words. “I try,” you mumble. “My attempts often come out quite poorly, but I do try to do right, like you and your brother.”

“Us?” I can’t but laugh at the thought of us being the role models in your life. You have witnessed the fall and rise of mankind, have seen gods being created and kingdoms spread, but you would look to two incredibly cracked and perennially stumbling human beings for guidance? 

You look at me with such sincerity it’s almost blinding. “You’ve taught me everything I know about how to live well.”

“Not everything,” I say quietly, patting my hand first to my chest, over my heart, and then to yours. “This, this right here is all yours.” We didn’t teach you to love like this. You had no template for how to open your heart so wide the seams would splinter. You never felt your Father’s presence, much less His affection. Your Heavenly sisters and brothers only understood love as far as it extends to loyalty to the rules. They have tried to kill you and you have been forced to kill them, over and over. 

My brother and I, we may have had a childhood fraught with neglect and absence, but we never doubted our father’s love. Or the love of our mother, even after the complexities of her return. Or the love of those who stepped into familial roles of care and attention, like Bobby.

But you, no one showed you to how to love; no one taught the gentle kindness you show to strangers, or the fierceness with which you defend and protect the helpless; or the tender patience you give to your son, or the undying faith you bestow on me and my brother. No one taught you to love this wildly, recklessly, and completely. That’s the boldness and beauty of your own soul. 

The one thing we might have taught you was to throw yourself on a grenade instead of disarming it. To put the price of salvation over the cost of sacrifice. To walk backwards towards a cliff face just to keep others from falling off the edge.

You told me you were going to die and I wish I could yell at you. I wish I could yell, no _scream_ , at God, at Death, at all the forces trying to poison the little bit of light we have, trying to shred the worn fabric of my family apart. Instead I clench my fingers tighter into the fabric of your coat and pull you closer, as if the gathering wind itself might steal you away. You shift a little, but you don’t move away.

You let me hold on, just a little longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing from Cas' POV next. What other characters would you like to see me write in first person POV? What other POVs should I try? Leave a comment if you want to see more.


End file.
